


two a.m. love

by superhoney



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 15x02 coda, Blow Jobs, Canon Related, Episode: s15e02 Raising Hell, Established Relationship, Facials, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Season/Series 15, Smut and Angst, referenced character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 10:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21117335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superhoney/pseuds/superhoney
Summary: Some things are better said with the lights out.





	two a.m. love

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, I haven't written anything new in a few weeks and I was feeling restless and itchy, so here's some canon-related sad smut. 
> 
> Title from Body by Loud Luxury. Summary is a riff on the liner notes from Matthew Good Band's Beautiful Midnight.

The high school is too bright. Dean sweats under the harsh fluorescent light, and when he catches a glimpse of his reflection in a window or the bathroom mirror, he flinches away from the sight of his own face. All his mistakes are written in the lines of tension around his mouth, in the shadows under his eyes. 

He isn’t the only one. Sam has that pinched expression he gets, when he’s trying hard to focus on worrying about everyone else and ignoring whatever’s going on with him. Dean watches him, when Sam is busy playing general to the other hunters or reassuring the nervous townspeople. He sees the way Sam’s hand drifts to his wounded shoulder, the way his lips thin and his nostrils flare. 

And Cas--

Cas wears his grief like he wears that goddamned trench coat. It trails after him, ill-fitting and unflattering, covering him nearly from head to toe. He said he couldn’t even look at Belphegor, but Dean can hardly look at him. It hurts too much to see his pain and to know he’s the one who caused it. 

Dean should have tried harder. Shouldn’t have given up on Jack so quickly. 

He knows, after that tense conversation, how Cas feels about free will. It would be funny, if Dean were capable of finding any humour in this situation. How the tables have turned. But if Cas is still clinging to the idea that their choices were their own, that Chuck could only manipulate them so far, then that means he still considers it Dean’s fault that Jack is dead.

Maybe Dean wasn’t the one who killed Jack, not really, but he’s the one who killed the trust between himself and Cas. 

They get back to the high school and Dean immediately heads for the farthest wing of the building, out of sight and earshot of everyone else. Sam calls after him, but Dean doesn’t stop. He can’t look at any of them, not right now. There’s an empty classroom, the lock falling open under his practiced hand, and when he closes the door behind himself he lets out a shaky breath as he leans his forehead against the solid wood.

“Fuck,” he says. His eyes slip closed and he says it again, because there’s nothing else to say. “Fuck.”

Turning, he examines the room more closely. There are bright maps and posters on the walls, the desks arranged in neat rows. Dean’s heart clenches painfully in his chest at the sight of the shoes lined up tidily along one inner wall. A few of them don’t have laces, just simple buckles or velcro closures.

Jack wore shoes like that.

Dean turns his back and starts shoving desks out of the way, clearing a patch of floor. He angrily balls up his fake FBI jacket and punches it into something resembling a pillow, then keeps punching until he’s made a mess of it and has to start all over again. He considers kicking off his own boots, but considering the way things are going, he’s unlikely to get any real rest before the shit hits the fan again. It’s probably best to be prepared.

So he crosses the room, flicks off the light, and settles down on the cold hard classroom floor, staring up at the tile ceiling without really seeing it. The windows face out to the parking lot, where a few lone lights spill golden across the cars parked there, keeping the room from complete darkness. 

The creak of the door doesn’t surprise him. He knew someone would come find him. The only question is whether it’s Sam or Cas. Dean rolls his head to the side, and in the narrow line of light from the hallway, makes out Cas’ familiar form.

“Dean.”

He says it like a petition, like a prayer. A pleading whisper that twists in Dean’s chest, tearing deep into his heart. 

“Shut the door,” is all he says in response. “It’s too bright.”

Cas does as instructed, then takes a few steps forward. Dean glances up at him but doesn’t rise from the floor, just watches as Cas perches on the edge of the teacher’s desk, trench coat settling around him. 

The silence stretches between them until Dean can’t bear it anymore. “I’m fine,” he says.

They both know it’s a lie.

Cas lets it linger for a moment, then exhales slowly. Says, “I’m not.”

Dean sits up, halfway to his feet before he checks himself. Cas wouldn’t want his attempts at comfort. He couldn’t. He stays where he is, hands braced at his sides, torn between the desire to pull Cas closer and the desire to push him away.

“I miss Jack,” Cas continues, and Dean flinches from the raw pain in his voice. “I’m worried about Sam. About all these people, and everyone else in the world.” Even in the dim light that filters in from the window, Dean can see the tension in the way he holds his shoulders, in the uncompromising set of his jaw. Cas turns his head, meeting Dean’s gaze. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” Dean repeats, as if saying it twice will somehow make it true, or more likely to be believed.

“You’re not,” Cas snaps, pushing himself off from the desk. “You told me so yourself. You’re angry, Dean. You’re always angry, I know, but this--” He slashes an impatient hand through the air. “This is our lives.”

Dean bites down on his lip so hard he nearly draws blood. He can hear the faint echo of Cas’ earlier words, a conversation that already feels like a lifetime ago. _You asked me what’s real. We are._

“Did you mean it?” he asks now. 

Cas doesn’t need him to clarify. He knows, in the way he knows Dean down to his very bones, down to his very soul. “I did.”

A choked-off sob rises in Dean’s throat. “I’m sorry,” he says, hoarse. “Christ, Cas, I’m so fucking sorry. About everything.”

“I know.” Softly, slowly, Cas comes closer. One warm hand settles on Dean’s head like a blessing. Like forgiveness. 

Dean closes his eyes. Cas strokes his hair away from his face, running the tip of one finger lightly across his cheekbone. Reaching up, Dean catches it between his own and places a kiss to the centre of his palm. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. He leans forward, resting his head against the solid warmth of Cas’ thigh. Rubs his cheek against the scratchy fabric of his pants.

He doesn’t know how long they stay frozen like that. He breathes in and out in a slow rhythm, and Cas doesn’t move away, doesn’t remove his hand from where it’s buried in Dean’s hair. But something in him relaxes, a quiet sigh escaping his lips, and Dean tilts his head back to meet Cas’ eyes, dark in the dimness of the room. 

Their pose takes on a new significance. Cas slides his hand down the back of Dean’s head, resting it lightly at the nape of his neck. Dean licks his lips and nuzzles against Cas’ thigh again, but higher this time. Cas’ breath hitches in his throat, his thumb stroking over the fine hairs at the back of Dean’s head as he presses his hips forward just an inch, enough for Dean to feel the erection swelling against the front of his pants.

“Can I?” Dean asks. He wants it so bad he thinks he might come undone if Cas pulls away, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed. Things have been so messed up between them, since even before Jack died. It’s been a long time since Dean was this close to Cas, and it almost overwhelms him, how much he wants him.

“Yes,” Cas breathes out.

He doesn’t say anything else as Dean mouths at him through the cheap fabric of his pants. As Dean slowly drags open his fly and pulls down his briefs, baring him to Dean’s gaze. The overhead fan clicks slightly as it whirls above them, as Dean licks his own palm and wraps his hand around Cas’ straining length.

Cas shudders at his touch, his own hand sliding back up to rest on the top of Dean’s head. Encouraged, emboldened, Dean leans forward and flicks his tongue over the head of Cas’ cock. He chases the familiar taste of him, rich and deep and unearthly, sliding his hand back to brush over Cas’ balls as he takes him further into his mouth.

Dean loses himself in this, in the weight of Cas’ cock on his tongue, the smell and feel of him, solidly-muscled thighs flexing under his hands. Cas thrusts his hips forward, just an inch, and Dean lets loose a groan. He loves it when Cas loses control, when he gives in to his desire, and Dean shamelessly encourages him, pulling out all his best tricks as he continues to work at Cas with his mouth. 

It should be obscene, Dean on his knees in the middle of an empty classroom, yet somehow, it’s anything but. Something about the quiet of it all, the gentle way Cas’ fingers thread through Dean’s hair as he holds him steady, turns this into an act of reverence. _This is holy ground,_ Dean thinks as he hums around Cas’ cock. _This is the only worship I’ll perform._

God might be nothing but a bored author, a liar who twists others’ lives for his own enjoyment, but Cas was right. This, the two of them-- they’re real. They always have been. And Dean and Cas are the ones who will decide how their story ends.

Cas is breathing harshly now, hips stuttering. Dean pulls back, just for a second, and meets his gaze, shining in the dark. “Do it,” he says, and Cas pulls his own lower lip between his teeth as he nods.

This is what’s real: days and nights exploring each other’s bodies, learning all the ways to find pleasure together. Midnight confessions and lengthy internet searches, a few raised eyebrows of both skepticism and interest. Fantasies made reality, and trust built from years of fighting on both the same and opposite sides. 

Dean takes Cas as deep as he can, and Cas pulls out before sliding back into his mouth again. Again, and again, until he’s gasping out Dean’s name and slipping free to wrap his unoccupied hand around his cock, slick with Dean’s saliva. Dean closes his eyes but leaves his mouth open, and when the first drops of Cas’ release hit his upturned face, he lets out a deep groan of his own. 

Cas sinks to his knees, mirroring Dean’s pose. Dean opens his eyes and deliberately licks a spot of Cas’ come from the corner of his mouth. Cas stares, wide-eyed, before reaching out a hand to cup Dean’s cheek. In the instant it hangs in the air between them, it trembles. 

Their lips meet in a messy, desperate kiss. Cas pulls at Dean’s shirt, tugging it free of his pants, pushes at his shoulders until Dean is flat on his back once more. Looming above him, Cas braces himself on one arm and slips the other down between them. Dean moans and arches up into him as Cas fumbles with his belt and pushes his hand into Dean’s boxers. 

It’s so good. The way Cas touches him, both controlled and artless. The way Cas kisses him all the while, muttering filthy beautiful things into his ears as he does. Dean writhes beneath him, heat building in his body, knowing he won’t last long. 

“Let yourself have this,” Cas says, his breath a warm gust of air along Dean’s white-spattered cheek, and Dean is lost.

It’s Cas’ hand, reaching out for his, that brings him back to reality. Dean shudders, his heart rate settling, and turns onto his side, tucking his head into the crook of Cas’ shoulder. Cas doesn’t care if he makes a mess. He can just wave his hand, and they’ll be neat and tidy again. 

If only he could fix up everything else so easily. But it wasn’t Cas who made this mess they’re all in. 

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Cas tightens his grip on Dean’s hand. “This is a difficult time,” he says.

Dean snorts. “You don’t say.”

Leaning down, Cas nips lightly at the tip of Dean’s nose, then soothes it with a kiss. “Don’t pull away from me now,” he says, softer. “Dean, I couldn’t bear it. To lose you, on top of everything else--”

“Hey.” Dean pushes himself up on one elbow, looking down into Cas’ face. His features are barely illuminated by the faint light coming in through the windows, but Dean knows the shape of them by heart, memorized in stolen glances built up over the years. “You won’t. I know I’m a goddamn mess most days, Cas, and half the time I push you away when I should be holding you just like this, but I swear. I’m not giving up on this.” He pauses, swallowing roughly. “On us.”

A tremulous smile hovers over Cas’ lips. “Good,” he says. “We’re going to need to have faith in something.”

Dean sighs and curls in closer, tugging his abandoned jacket over the two of them. In the morning, the sun will peek in through the windows, illuminating the sharp lines of Cas’ face. There will be worry there, and sadness, but Dean will bear the sight of them. He will kiss the smile back onto Cas’ lips, even if for a moment, and his own will rise to match it.


End file.
